


please don't bother me, i am trying to read

by hupsoonheng



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:44:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7469451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>zemo asks t'challa out and sam gets a date instead</p>
            </blockquote>





	please don't bother me, i am trying to read

**Author's Note:**

> i'm just very petty tbh and i'm not sorry

"Medium Americano! Medium Americano for, uh, Charlie!" 

T'Challa sighs, heaving himself from the stool at the window bar to collect the coffee he paid for someone named Charlie to have, apparently. The barista brushes dark hair out of his pallid face as he pushes the paper cup forward, and tries a little smile that twitches at the corners. "Your Americano," he says, with a touch of an Eastern European accent. 

"Thank you," T'Challa says, voice dry as he accepts it. He takes himself and his Americano back to the window, and pulls his book closer as he hops onto the stool. As he opens to his saved page, he takes a sip of the coffee; a little watery, but not bad. T'Challa watches some of the people coming in while he sips, and indulges himself in watching one particular man coming up the handful of steps. Dark-skinned, well-groomed, and hints of a strong physique beneath an outfit that's an even mix of practical and fashion-forward. The coffee could stand to be more like this man. 

He's about to actually begin reading his book when he feels a presence behind him, looming with nervous breaths. 

"Can I help you?" T'Challa says before he even turns around. He discovers the barista who served him standing there, who seems to blanch under his gaze. 

"How's your coffee?" the barista asks, trying another smile. This one at least fares better than his last. 

"It is fine, thank you." Assuming that's all the man wanted, T'Challa begins to turn around again. He'd really like to read his book, after all. 

"Ah—well. I only wanted to check. To see if there was anything else you needed." 

"No, thank you," T'Challa tells his book, irritated by having to begin the sentence he was reading all over again. 

"I wouldn't mind buying you anything else you wanted," the barista persists, and that makes T'Challa turn around one more time. 

"Buying me something?" T'Challa tries not to sound too incredulous; his father taught him that even the strangest of strangers deserve manners. Across the room, he accidentally catches the eye of the man he saw walking in. The man is staring right over the top of his own book, and when he sees he's been caught at it, rather than look away, he lowers his book just enough to give a wince of sympathy. 

"If you wanted, ah, a cookie, a slice of cake," and here the barista's face gains some deeper color, "perhaps my mobile number...?" He has a scrap of paper in his hands, which you finally notice when he thrusts it forward. It says _Helmut_ above the phone number written on it. "Th-that's my name. Helmut." 

There's something familiar about this man, especially now that he's given his name. T'Challa frowns hard, searching his face. 

"Sorry, maybe I'm being too forward," the barista—Helmut—says, beginning to pull back the piece of paper, although not so far away that T'Challa couldn't still take it. "I just—I see you around a lot, and I see you always being kind and helpful to others, and..." Helmut rocks back and forth on his heels. "I just thought I'd try my luck." 

T'Challa snaps his fingers. "Now I know where I remember you from. You spat at my father's feet when he was walking through campus to meet a university head." 

Helmut's eyes go wide. "Your father?" 

"You were angry at the university for something, and you called my father a conspirator and spat at him," T'Challa says, rubbing his chin. "Yes, I remember you now. I could not forget this face." 

"I was misguided, troubled," Helmut babbles, the pink of his cheeks darkening even further. "Please—" 

"You can't even remember me from then? I was right next to him," T'Challa chuckles. 

"I admit I was angry then," Helmut says, holding his hands out by his hips, trying to take a saintly pose. "I was going through so much, that I never thought out my actions as well as I could have. As I should have. I was consumed by my anger." 

T'Challa waits. 

"So please, consider giving me a chance." 

Not even a synonym for an apology anywhere in his little speech. He slides off the stool, standing tall over Helmut, who swallows at T'Challa's sudden proximity. Then T'Challa makes a hard right turn, and walks in long strides over to a table across the room. 

The man he watched before is already looking at T'Challa by the time he reaches the table. The man puts his book down, and T'Challa holds his hand out, offering a handshake. "Hello," he says, with utmost sincerity, "my name is T'Challa. What is yours?" 

"Uh, Sam," the man says, and T'Challa is close enough to feel the heat rising from his face, and in the palm of his hand when he accepts the handshake. 

"Nice to meet you, Sam. Would you like to get out of here?" T'Challa asks, still holding Sam's hand. 

Sam looks around the coffee shop; first at the corner of the bar, where the drink he already paid for must be up for grabs, then at Helmut, who looks absolutely gobsmacked at how this is turning out. Lastly, he looks T'Challa up and down, really _drinks_ him in, and T'Challa finally smiles. That's his answer, really, but he'll wait for verbal confirmation. 

"Uh, hell yes," Sam says, letting go of T'Challa's hand just so he can put away his book and hoist his bag over his shoulder. "Yes, please. I mean—" 

"Then let us go, before something else happens," T'Challa says, holding out a most gentlemanly arm. Sam hooks his elbow around T'Challa's in an instant, and together they march out, leaving Helmut with an American that's a little watery, a copy of Octavia Butler's _Kindred_ , and not much else. 

For the record, Sam shows T'Challa a good time. A _very_ good time. And they do it again the very next week.


End file.
